


Whispering of jokers doing flesh by the pound

by rawthorne (noisette)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noisette/pseuds/rawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is not an inch on Theon’s body that wants for evidence of pain. His scars go deep, catch under Jaime’s fingers and heat under his tongue—at least the few that Theon lets him touch. (spoilers up to ADWD.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispering of jokers doing flesh by the pound

the jut of bone and sword cannot be told apart under an unfeeling limb. one is no sturdier than the other, no more dangerous or honed sharply with the intent to cause him pain. jaime knows this now. he looks elsewhere for comfort and sees grayish skin sagging on a once-noble frame, loose flesh held together by a cinched belt and a tunic much too large. pale eyes cling to his reflection when he dips his hand beneath, unlacing breeches he’ll never be able to tie back together unaided. that he won’t have to.

above him, theon swallows against the flickering of his gaze, a shadow under duress, a muscle clenching in his jaw. he says nothing of desire. (and so very little else besides.) his legs are twisted branches bracketing jaime’s hips, holding him prisoner under a cage of human bone that once housed a loud cackle, an even louder threat. jaime doesn’t want to remember that.

his fingers find flesh and squeeze lightly, eyes trained on the hollows of an enemy’s face, the curve of his lips when he sighs—“yes” and “a little—yes”—as helpless in his thrall as any camp follower. he is that, if rumor is to be believed, and more. gone is the crowing mirth of the imposter, just like jaime’s right hand. he holds theon with the stump of it resting lightly against the sharp curve of a narrow hip, his left so clumsy, so slow in its ministrations. he thinks theon might be staring at him with disgust, like so many whores who weren’t his sister; thinks he’d rather not know if he is.

there is not an inch on theon’s body that wants for evidence of pain. his scars go deep, catch under jaime’s fingers and heat under his tongue—at least the few that theon lets him touch. of the rest, he catalogs the sporadic glimpses over the short wooden table as a sleeve rides high on a pale wrist circled by pinkish ligature marks, or in the bath, before theon submerges himself in foggy-white water and asks to be given a moment.

and then there are the nights when he will stumble from the bed and rip his shirt from his back with shaking hands, screaming ‘reek, reek’ and jaime will be the one to calm him before the guards overhear and word gets to their host that one prisoner is abusing the other.

mostly, though, jaime sees what theon wants him to see by candlelight and moonbeam; little scratches on the cave-wall of his belly, a crisscross of jagged barbs around his left thigh. burns on his shoulder. a mole under his right ear, the place where jaime most likes pressing his lips when theon sags against him, content and quiet, at least until the nightmares hit.

the signs are there all along. theon fixes him with that indolent smirk when he fights in the practice yard at winterfell, as if despairing to see him falter. when he taunts, it’s with chin thrust forward and unspoken challenges on the back of his tongue, more stark than ironborn. he confuses loyalty with duty after the whispering wood, but his gaze still lingers on jaime, as if undoing each rope around his wrists and tying it again, with purpose. with unholy intent.

perhaps in another life.

he has jon snow to champion his release before this brother of king robert, but there are matters more pressing, so he is forced, under lock and key, to share a tower room with none other than the kingslayer. the crippled lion, they call him now. as far as prison cells, theirs is a feast for the eyes. the bed is bare, but sturdy and fits two bodies without much effort. servants bring bread and meat, and water for drinking and washing. all they lack is the freedom to escape into a realm that is crumbling—and the quiet of the night. yet for that, jaime does not think he can blame stannis.

with eyes closed, theon gropes blindly for his hand and brings it to a still. he always does this, always holds back at the very last, until jaime runs a finger under the crown of his member and he shudders soundlessly into a ragged heap. his heart pounds wildly against jaime’s ear and he takes advantage of the rare respite to remind himself of what living sounds like.

“jaime—“

“here, theon. right here.” wrecked sobs filled the first nights, but now it’s only the silence that stretches between them, long and harsh and colored by syncopated breaths—theon’s slowing while jaime’s pick up the pace, body curling forward and around skeletal fragments. jaime’s hand works quickly, his clothes a rustle of fabric under hooded eyes and the flickering candlelight—

—and then delight, as theon’s seed slicks his hand and cock and his sullen mouth presses soft, unintelligible murmurs into his temple. sometimes, they kiss. but not tonight.

tonight, jaime comes over his hand and theon’s hand and the pale slope of his leg, marking the marks of abuse with ugliness of his own. the room smells of their joint sin, but neither moves to crack open a shutter; jaime tells himself it’s not because they remember. he tells himself many other lies besides, so why not that? why not make believe there was a time when all of this might have been avoided? why not pretend he’d want to.

it will be late in the night, when the mattress creaks and creaks and finally crowns the cacophony of sound with shrill screaming and a heavy thump, that jaime will wake again, wrenched from a dreamless sleep and thrust back into the horror of theon’s daily terror. reminded that he doesn’t know this reek who torments their nights, he will wish for his death and hold theon that much tighter with the fingers of one hand.


End file.
